Counting, and Other Tales
by erdbeerpfannkuchen
Summary: England counts the days they've been together. France is an idiot. France's crappy drawing of beret wearing frogs and sappiness ensues.Author fails at titles. Plus! I added another story. More may follow.
1. Counting

England pulled away from the calendar; pen in hand, smiling at his work. He had drawn a little heart, almost unnoticeable, in the corner of each day, for nearly two months. Today would be forty eight.

Forty eight days, forty eight hearts.

And he still hadn't killed him yet.

_He'd laugh if he knew about this.._ Arthur glared down at the heart, before flickering into a smile. _But he'd like it, I'm sure. One more thing to make fun of me for._

But he'd keep his routine. Even if it _was_ sappy, even if he _would_ laugh, it made him happy at the thought of counting these days. Spending time together with.. that frog.. also managed to make him happy.

Somehow. He never could figure it out.

"Angleterre! Où es-tu, mon chéri..?~" Francis had a way of nearly singing his words when he spoke to Arthur. Though it was endearing, sometimes it was incredibly annoying. This time it was the latter.

"France, are you unable to comprehend the words 'please knock'?" England sighed, capping his pen, and glanced up at the intruder. "I'm busy."

"Ah, excuse moi. I only wanted to see if you were doing alright, since you lock yourself in your room all day. Doing whatever you do." He had a certain way of walking around as if he owned everything around him that always pissed Arthur off just a little bit, and watching him nearly waltz forward into his private (or, not-so-private) office made him want to shoot the man. Though he knew he didn't do it on purpose. France was just.. France.

Hastily shuffling the papers on his desk into order( Prince Harry's Halloween costume predicament was still an issue- and organizing the Queens visits to America, of all places. ) and Arthur glared at his current significant other, who was currently invading his privacy and no-touching-me-before-9 o'clock policy. "This is my house, my office, my personal bubble. Get out of all three."

"Someone has a knot in his knickers." France chuckled, retracting his arm from around England's neck, which was supposedly invading his 'bubble'. "Am I bothering you?"

"I thought I already made it quite clear you were. You are NOT welcome here."

"I thought your _beau_ would get a special privilege."

"You thought wrong."

The elder man's humor died down a little. He was always so stiff when he was working. Though he'd never gotten the opportunity to be this close to his desk before(he'd invaded the study, of course, but the papers he saw from a glance were all rather boring and Francis didn't want to waste his time with them) it was oddly well-kept. Everything had a place. He was certain the papers did too, but Arthur had pushed them all out of the way as soon as he got there to see their organization. There was a desk calendar which sat flat, with a leather case that kept it in place on the workspace. It didn't have much written on it. That Englishman didn't have much of a social life. He'd have to fix that. Picking it up, he squinted at the print. "Your handwriting is terrible. Let's see what you're doing this week, hmm..?"

It looked as though England would pop a vein in his head. "Give. That. BACK." His hand shot out for the calendar, which France easily evaded, holding out his own arm against England's flailing body. "I said give it to me! Stay out of my personal belongings!"

"Tea with China, a trade conference with America.. Oh, what's this? Hearts?"

For a moment, England stopped flailing, starting to blush, before flailing twice as much, grabbing and hitting at the other man, attempting to get his damn calendar back. "FROG! You bloody, dim-witted oaf of a-"

"Hm. Why are there only hearts on certain days? They started last month."

"J-Just give me that!"

After staring at it for a moment longer, France obliged, extending it back to the other man with a smirk. "Take it, there's nothing interesting about it anyway~"

Glaring, England swiped back his calendar, but the look he was getting was starting to scare him. "I'm sure _your schedule _is a bit more colorful, you pervert.'I think I'll have my weekly shag with Jeanette on Thursday'!" With matching hand motions and raising his voice an octave, he managed to make the worst imitation of France possible.

"I should think a rabbit would have more of a social life."

"I hate you."

"_Amour_, lighten up."

The Englishmen's glare only intensified, as did his blush. "G-" He caved. "Frog, just go home. I'm tired and busy and have no time for your antics today."

"Antics, I'll-"

"Go before I punch you in the face."

France was about to retaliate before he noticed that he seriously looked like he meant it. "Fine, then." He turned and walked out in the same annoying manner he had when he walked in. And already England missed the company. He threw his calendar back on the desk, locked the damn door(figuring he'd come back to annoy him) and sat himself down in his wooden, uncomfortable chair, taking off the first paper on the cluttered stack he had arranged with haste previously.

_Dear sir or madam,_

_I sincerely apologize on behalf of Prince Harry for his recent fashion disaster..._

He awoke the next morning drooling on his desk. Half his face was covered with ink smudges, and his paper was covered with spit smudges. Oh, bugger, that was his nice stationery, too.

Wiping the drool away from his mouth, Arthur felt something fall off his shoulders. This was odd, since he couldn't recall falling asleep with a foreign object draped around him. Lifting it up to examine the object, he realized it was, in fact, a coat.

Francis's coat.

Whom he had forced out of his house a few hours earlier.

_Bloody wanker._

Though admittedly, it was a sweet gesture. For a perverted frog. But more importantly, now, he had to clean up his desk and finish those papers..

England sighed, setting the coat aside, and rearranging and tossing away the drooled upon papers, until it was finally all cleared down to his desk calendar.

He stared for one moment, two. Before letting his pride get the better of him and his face boiled with embarrassment.

On said calendar was the drawing of a large frog, with a beret, scarf and moustache, saying. "J'taime, Sourcils!"

He had been insulted enough in French to know what that meant, and it managed to make his heart leap in the elation of love and his mind wish to crush his very soul. So he picked up the phone to limit himself to intense yelling and possibly destroying the phone instead of punching him in the face. He really did care, after all.

"Bonjour, F-"

"YOU BASTARD, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU."

"Ah, Arthur, Salut~"

"DON'T YOU GO FRENCH ON ME. I WANT YOU TO APOLOGIZE."

"For what?"

"YOU DREW A FROG ON MY CALENDAR AND CALLED ME AN EYEBROW FACE."

France restrained himself from telling his lover that it was true. "And?"

"I HATE YOU. HOW THE HELL DID YOU EVEN GET INTO MY STUDY? IT WAS LOCKED."

France ignored this question. "Did you even look at the bottom part?"

"What?"

"The bottom part. Under the drawing. Written in _Anglais_, for your benefit."

"I didn't see any-"

"Did you even look?"

Sighing in defeat, he took up the calendar, muttering a few curses under his breath, England actually took the time to look at what else was written. There it was, in plain English, 5 little words in France's gay-ass curly writing that looked like it came right off a Word document.

_I count the days, too._

He wasn't blushing. Really. Though the sound of the blood rushing to his face was almost audible through the phone."..Francis-"

"Oh, and I put a couple of things down on your calendar. To make it less boring. _Au revoir_." With that, he hung up.

Dammit, what else could he possibly-

Every 3 days, there was more of his writing. On every single one of said dates was-

_Alone time with Francis. ;)_

Okay, forget the sappy. He really was going to kill him.

But Arthur had failed to notice another thing.

Every day of the year, Francis had added another heart.

_Authorspeak_

_._

_I found my inbox flooded with favorites, reviews, alerts.. I wish I had time to get to them all. /facepalm so here's a mass thank you._

_But thank ya'll for the lovely comments, I'll seriously consider a sequel if I can think of anything. Open to suggestions!_


	2. A Momentary Breakdown

Toothbrush in mouth, gazing into the mirror, Arthur had only one thought.

"Eyebrow Face."

That, of course, being his nickname, by next to everyone.

It was not supposed to be flattering.

Personally, he didn't see the big deal about appearances. People nowadays were supposed to be judged by their character, right?

Then why was it that he was so insecure about his scruffy hair, his crooked teeth, his wolfish brows?

"Bloody hell, you sound like a teenage girl, you arse. Get the fuck OVER it."

Turning from the mirror, he ran his hands through his straw-like hair, cursing at the modern world for being so damn facade oriented. It was so much easier back when people didn't bathe. He sunk behind the sink onto the floor, biting the toothbrush he had been using before he came to his horrific realization that his supercilia covered half of his face. The outer corners of his mouth were still slightly foamy from brushing. Arthur heaved a sigh.

There was the possibility of remedying the situation, i.e. plucking them, but that would mean he conceded defeat. His pride would not stand for it.

He could ignore it, but he had been, for several years. He always shot insults back, pretending not to care, ruing the times when his cheeks began to color, along with his ears, which he attempted to pass off their origin as anger-based.

He sighed again.

"_Mon joie_, you've been in there for almost an hour." Called a voice from behind the door.

"Go away."

"I have to leave for Paris, I have a job, I can't stay in London forever."

"Use the other bathroom, then."

"You have my toothbrush."

"Well chew some gum and shove off."

Francis was silent for a moment, before clicking his tongue.

"Quel est ton problème ce matin, monsieur?"

It was Arthur's turn to be silent.

"Come now, don't be so mood-"

There came a smashing from the other side of the door, along with a cry of despair.

Francis frowned. Too late to stop him from being moody. "What-"

"I said, leave me the fuck alone, you nancy-boy!"

Gripping the doorknob to the bathroom, Francis forced himself in, to the Englishman's dismay, since he forgot to lock the door, as it was 4 in the morning and he was forgetful at that hour. Glancing down at the other man, Francis observed his state: Messy haired, red-eyed, stubble chinned, sickly pale, and in nothing but his boxers and a stained wife beater. He was beautiful, but god, he was a hot mess.

"Love, for the all that is holy, tell me what's wrong."

And so, Arthur began to bawl.

Francis reviewed the situation.

He was supposed to leave for work an hour ago.

He was tired, cranky, and hadn't had his l'express.

Arthur was royally pissed, crying, and wouldn't give him his toothbrush.

The things he did for love.

"Arthur, come here."

He did. Well, he slammed into his chest much like a torpedo and held Francis's neck in what any bystander would have thought was an attempt to choke him. He mumbled something in his chest, garbled together in a garbled, un-enunciated mess, aside from a single word.

"Your eyebrows? You're crying over you're eyebrows?"

England sniffled.

"You're not serious."

"S-Shut the hell up, why don't you."

"Oh, _cherie_.." He squeezed the pathetic bastards shoulder, rubbing it gently with his thumb. "I love you. And your eyebrows. You're wonderful as you are."

"R-Really?"

"But you're going to repay me for the vase you just destroyed. It was on loan from Versailles."

Arthur's pupils shrank. Oh, well shit. In his rage, he knocked over a decorative vase on the counter. Why would Francis keep a priceless fucking vase in the BATHROOM?

The arse.

"You're-" Arthur chocked on a sob at the back of his throat, but managed to chuckle through a fresh wave of tears. "Y-You're a dick."

"I know, _charmant_, I know."


End file.
